Fall on your Knees
by Subterraneanhomesickalien
Summary: Spike and Buffy Festive Angsty Beauty


Fall on your Knees  
by SubterraneanHomesickAlien  
  
Disclaimer - not mine. Never were.  
Rating - G  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's all dark, aside from the tiny, glistening lights that  
illuminate the far corner of the basement. So black and  
dank and grey that it almost feels like depression just   
to be down there, but then there is that tiny spark in the  
distance - that glimmer of brightness in the cold, foreboding   
darkness.  
  
  
She looks at the spark, and it makes her want to cry. Thirty  
five golden lights, all scattered and feathered over that dying   
tree, with its branches falling down and its heart ripped out. Thirty  
five golden flickers, enlightening those browning needles of   
pine deep down in the basement where only rain falls and the sun   
never dares to venture. The slight draft makes the hairs on her neck  
stand on end, and the tears that track their way down her cheekbones   
feel colder still as the icy breath catches them.  
  
  
She doesn't know that he can see her tears from where he is; doesn't  
know that his little lights catch the tiny saltwater drops as   
they trickle down skin he longs to taste and touch and caress, just   
like he used to. He wants to kiss her tears away with lips that tingle  
with longing, but he knows that her tears will burn him like holy  
water, because she is above him, and because he belongs in Hell.   
  
  
She looks like an angel as she stands there in the doorway, her face   
a mask of confusion and her golden hair billowing loosely around a   
young face that seems so old and wise that her age could never be   
deciphered by a passing stranger. The skin is so soft and faultless, yet  
the eyes are so full of wet, harsh pain, and he knows that she has   
seen things she never should have, and heard things that will haunt her  
for eternity. He knows what that's like, because he's living it.  
  
  
She's staring at the pitiful tree that he stole from the cemetery.   
He decorated it himself in one of his less clouded moments, and he   
learned the words to Silent Night. He remembers singing it in the   
church choir when he was seven years old, and he doesn't know why  
the memory makes him cry for his lost, abandoned innocence. He cries  
for that a lot, these days, probably as much as he cries for the  
innocence he stole from victims who will not let him rest.  
  
  
He dreams, down here in the darkness, and he finds it kind of   
funny, finds it kind of sad that the dreams in which he's dying   
are the best he's ever had. Mostly, he dreams of his demon, and   
he's so black and grotesque when in his purest form that he finds  
himself vomiting in his sleep. He didn't even know vampires   
could vomit, and he finds it ironic that he's coughing up blood.   
If he'd been alive, it would have been consumption, and it would have  
been a crimson red warning for him to say his prayers and beg   
God for forgiveness, because He would have been calling upon him   
soon. But - he's already dead, and so there are no trombones or  
choirs of ravens pecking around his head. There is only his   
victims, peopling his brain as if they had nowhere else to go.  
  
  
It occurred to him that perhaps they DID have nowhere   
else to go, and this made him feel guiltier, still.  
  
  
She's touching the branches, now, and she almost jumps out   
of her skin when one falls off in her hand. That's how fragile   
it is. It would shatter if she touched it; fall to pieces if  
she were to dare to breathe on it. He smiles at the thought, because  
now he knows why he chose that tree. He lit it up nicely, and   
it makes him proud that he created something beautiful from something  
broken and dying. He's happy that he gave it that one last glisten  
before it died. He realises that it's only a tree, but he also realises   
that he's not quite the full shilling any more, and it is probably  
fitting that he feels so much for an inanimate object, because   
he can't feel it for her any more. He's not allowed to. He's beneath  
that. Still. Always.  
  
She doesn't know what to do; what to thing, and she can't quite   
explain why Spike's attempt at a Christmas Tree makes her want to cry   
for him so badly. It could be the fact that it is such a human thing  
to do - Celebrate the birth of Christ with an offer of a full-branched, decorated  
depiction of beauty. It could also be the fact that Christ wants nothing  
to do with Spike, and yet he still puts up this battered attempt at a celebration   
of His divine birth. He'd hung himself on that cross and he'd burned - because  
God didn't want him. She wanted to cry for the lost little boy he'd became, giving   
himself so fully to creatures and entities that would never give themselves back.  
  
  
The thought breaks her heart, and she doubts that she'll ever be able to put it  
back together again. She falls to her knees, yet she hears no angel's  
voices...she only hears a demons.  
  
  
"It's not much", he whispers, hesitantly, "but it's the best I could do."  
  
  
He looks so lost. So tired of fighting the voices, and so spent. His eyes are   
so beautiful and so soulful, and it suddenly struck her what Anya had   
been talking about that day in the Bronze. She had looked into his eyes, and  
she had seen him...for the first time, really seen him...and now, so could she.  
She could see right into his windows, directly into his soul, and it was hurting  
so intensely and burning so furiously...all for her.  
  
  
"It's beautiful, Spike", she murmered, her eyes lowered to the ground, feeling  
somehow unworthy to look at the soul that was torturing him so fully...the soul   
he had got only for her. He moves his hand hesitantly, gently, frightened of  
what she might do if she were to reject his touch - frightened the he   
might burn again, but she didn't pull away. He placed his hand on her tear stained   
cheek, the way he had longed to do from his hiding place in the corner, and lifted  
her head so tenderly and so soothingly that it struck her heart that little   
bit more.  
  
  
"Pet", he whispered, "you need to be with the people you love tonight. I can   
survive down here one more day without you."  
  
  
She shook her head, tears filling her eyes once again, but he placed his finger  
to her lips, shushing her before she could say anything.  
  
  
"I've got my tree and my voices, Love. I'm not alone."  
  
  
His tree and his voice, both of which wanted nothing more than to torment   
him. She pulled away, found the strength to look him in the eye, before her   
own lips curled into a beautiful smile.  
  
  
"Spike", she gasped, "No soul deserves to be alone at Christmas. Not even yours."  
  
  
She placed her hand against his unbeating heart, her unspoken words telling him that   
she could see him, now, whereas she had closed her eyes to his pain before. She could   
see him, and she could trust him, and most of all...she could love him.  
  
She took his hand in hers, and she thought that it felt a little warmer, now. His   
skin felt a little softer, and his colour looked a little more alive. She noticed the   
little differences, even if they were only in her imagination. They made him that   
little bit more human.  
  
  
"Lets go home", she smiled, and took her Spike out of the cold, dark place he  
had inhabited for so long. He deserved to be in the light, now, and that was where  
she intended to take him.  
  
  
As the door closed, the tiny tree took its last breath, and   
fell - like dust - to the ground. He no longer needed things that would not give him  
something back. 


End file.
